


Murder on Paralon

by blueberryscowler



Category: Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica - James A. Owen, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Gen, i don't know anything right now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23579098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberryscowler/pseuds/blueberryscowler
Summary: Lord Peter Wimsey is asked to investigate a murder in a faraway place.This is all done very spontaneously, mostly because I would like to investigate the connections Lord Peter Wimsey – and Dorothy L. Sayers herself – might have to the Archipelago of Dreams. Some of it is based on some ideas I already had on that matter, some is made up as I go along, and I will update tags and characters with it. Please excuse spelling and grammar errors – English is not my native language and I am a bit muddled up right now.
Kudos: 7





	1. Lord Peter through the Rabbit Hole

It was night when Lord Peter reached the port. He was not at all happy about this journey. Bunter knew this, because his lordship had told him so six times by now. It was a very wet evening, he had said, and he had much better things to do, and all that aside, he was bound to be home by tomorrow, or else his mother would be terribly disappointed.

“Of course, my lord.” Bunter had said so six times that evening and, as a matter of fact, it was all he had said. His lordship was not usually a whiny sort of person, but he had had a very bad night and thus was determined to have an even worse day. He hadn't quite succeeded so far and apparently hoped to make up for it tonight.

Bunter cleared his throat in preparation of saying a new line for the first time that day: “The gentleman is bound to appear in a few minutes, my lord.”

“You think it's a gentleman, Bunter?” asked his lordship. “It might be a gentlewoman. Or someone not quite so gentle, after all.”

Or a different sort of being altogether, gentle or not…The letter had arrived a day before, in the very early morning, before the actual post, beautifully stamped but not marked. It was written in an unusual, scrawly yet strangely appealing hand, and despite its many errors of spelling, its writer seemed to possess a surprisingly rich vocabulary. It was signed with the Greek letter delta within an odd, wobbly circle. The letter was equally mysterious, funny and charming, and it had struck a strange chord in Lord Peter's mind that made him excited, yet also somehow depressed. Bunter had not made any sort of remark in regards to the letter.

The writer had asked him to come to the Port of London at a quarter past ten. Lord Peter took out his pocket watch. For the glimpse of a moment he thought that the watch had given him a slight electric shock, but he quickly recovered himself and Bunter. If his valet had seen him shiver, then he did not let it show. Instead he contemplated his lordship, or rather a spot beside his lordship, though Peter was certain he was looking at him, with a peculiar sort of, not altogether happy, satisfaction.

Peter looked at his watch again. It had been given to him many years ago, by a man who liked him for some reason, was even grateful towards him, though why Peter could not remember. It was the most precise watch he had ever owned, with no need to be repaired or even wind up ever since it had come into his possession, and now it showed ten-fourteen. A few seconds still.

“Greetings, Lord-Scowler,” said a small, bodiless voice. Peter turned to face the shadows near a few large, wooden boxes that smelled horribly of fish.

“Or is it your Scowlership?” the voice went on timidly. “Or just Scowler Wimsey? I don't mean to offend you, ya know?”

“I'm sure you don't mean to,” said Peter. “But why won't you show yourself?”

Instead of answering the voice asked, “Is that Sergeant Bunter? The great Sergeant Bunter? You have brought him _here_?” The voice was tinted with an almost child-like glee, as though Bunter was at least Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy in one person. But it sounded like a young man, Peter thought, a light voice, with a slightly earthy timbre.

“I am indeed Sergeant Bunter.”

Peter turned round at the unexpected testimony. Bunter's voice was warm and gentle, free of the usual stiffness expected of a valet, yet with a deep respect in it that Peter had only once heard him talk with before, many years ago, in the very, very dark.

The voice gasped and Peter had enough of it. If his valet liked to exchange pleasantries with an invisible stranger, he could do so on a holiday.

“Now that you know who _we_ are,” he said sharply, though not unkindly, “we, or I at the very least, would like to know how to call _you_. And,” he added, “now that I think of it, I would also like to see you. Hop along, there's a nice old street lamp over there.”

A gulp came from the shadows, then a rustling. “Are you really sure?” asked the voice. “I mean, are ya sure you want t'see me? My name is Fred.”

“I am sure,” said Peter. “Fred. And what more? You're name can't only be Fred, can it?”

“I suppose one might say that…that my family name is Tummeler.” He mused for a moment. “Yes, Tummeler. Or perhaps Hargreaves-Heald, as that's how my father's name ends. But we jus' call him Uncas.” Another pause. “That is, I call him Pa.”

“I am glad to hear that. Now, will you step out of the shadows?”

“Not if you shoot me.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I know you Englishmen sometimes shoot beings like…people like me.”

Lord Peter did not know why the young stranger had called him “Scowler” or what it was supposed to mean, but at just this moment he began to scowl, and a feeling of caution and pity overcame him. “Just come out of the shadows, my boy. We won't shoot you.”

“Oh, I am sure Sergeant Bunter would not do this.”

“Neither would I.”

Another gulp, a sigh, and a rustling. The first thing Peter thought, upon the sight of that stranger, was that his brother Gerald, had he seen him on one of his frequent trips through the woods, might have gladly shot him. The second thing Peter thought, was that, had he joined his brother, he might, though with less eagerness, have done the same. His third thought was, _For a badger, his spelling is actually very good._

“Scowler Fred,” said the small being, “Apprentice Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica, at yer service.” Then he shrugged. “Actually, I am a full Caretaker now, it's difficult t' explain.”

It was a charming creature, all black and white and grey, a striped head and a velvety pelt. _Real_ velvet, as Peter, to his further shock, realised. He was wearing a small _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ suit, with a large lace collar and a grey sash around his waist. But his charm was not as sweet as one might have expected to be, there was no air of Beatrix Potter about him, and only barely _The Wind in the Willows_.

He was a wild animal, and he was, in some ways, a man, and he had written him a letter, asking to come to the Port of London in the middle of the night. This was no storybook critter, it was…whatever that meant, a Caretaker, apprentice or not.

“Good evening, Scowler Fred. I am glad to hear that you are…at my service, as you say. But I suppose it is actually you, who is in need of the help of me, and… _Sergeant_ Bunter.”

“Yes, yes indeed, I am,” said Fred shyly. “I have heard only good of you, of you both, and I know you are great friends of us and of our world.”

“We are?” asked Peter.

“And I would like you…I would like you to investigate a murder.”

“A murder you say? That's interesting. Don't you think so, Sergeant?” he asked Bunter, who agreed in his usual manner.

“By the way, if _you_ are Sergeant, why am I not Major? I don't see why I should be a Scowler. I don't always scowl, except when my monocle won't fit properly, and you can't blame me for that.”

“My grandfather wears a monocle, too,” said Fred, “but we don't call him Scowler. Though some might argue that he is one. I call you Scowler, because you have been educated in the Heart of the Summer Country, the Home of all true Scowlers and Friends of Badgers. _Oxford_. But if you prefer me to call you anything else, I will do so.”

“No, thank you, my…my boy, I think I like Scowler well enough. It has a nice ring to it, almost like Scholar.”

“Yes, Scowler.”

“I see…” Peter sighed. “Now, who got murdered? A ferret? A hedgehog? A fox, maybe? Was it a hunter?”

“It was not a hunter,” said Fred, almost sharply, “and I don't think it was a Child of the Earth that was killed. If you would join me, I should show you what you need to know, for I can tell you very little.”

“I am afraid that is impossible,” said Peter. “Because I have promised my mother to see her tomorrow.”

“You will be back in time,” said Fred.

“But how is that possible?”

“You ask why this is possible,” said Fred. “Why is that all you wonder about?”

Bunter cleared his throat again. “If I might say so, my lord,” he began, and without waiting whether his lordship agreed that he might say so, continued, “I think it is very likely that he will be back in time. I might not be able to explain why…and I should not need to.”

A flicker came into Lord Peter's eye. The previous night had been horrible, full of bad dreams, which may or may not have been caused by this strange letter. He glanced at the badger, who took a watch out of his suit pocket that was very much like his own.

“Now, where are you going to take us?”

“Ah,” said the badger absent-mindedly. “To my own alma mater…of sorts, the Great Whatsit.”

“The Great Whatsit?” asked Peter. “What does that mean?”

The badger fumbled at his watch. “What it means? You don't…oh, of course. You might know it as the Great Library of Alexandria.”


	2. Far, Beyond A Star

The badger led the two men on board of a small ship with, as far as they could make out in the dark, peculiarly even surface. “The Green Dragon,” the small animal murmured, “our ship.”

“Your family's?” asked Peter. If badgers could talk, they might just as well own ships.

“That is a good word, thank you. All Children of the Earth are a family, are they not? But it is not the ship of only my fathers and me, not that.”

Peter decided to ask no more personal questions and followed Fred (and Bunter, who seemed to accept all of tonight's happenings with unwavering serenity) into a small, warmly lit cabin. It had a bunk bed and a little crib of sorts beneath a painting of a very old man with a long beard.

“So, you want to take us to Alexandria?” asked Peter and sat down on the lower bunk bed. As if on a signal, Bunter climbed up the ladder to the upper one.

“Of course not,” said Fred, with a surprising lack of patience, and leaned against the opposite wall. “But I will take you to the library. I hope you will find your beds comfortable enough. You could do with some sleep.”

“You send us to bed?”

“I merely suggest it. You have agreed to help me, and I want you to be comfortable.”

Peter tilted his head a little, like the hint of a bow. “But if we will sleep until tomorrow morning, and arrive at the library, how are we to return tomorrow?”

The badger looked at him, but said nothing. He didn't need to.

“I suppose there won't be much excitement tonight?”

“Hopefully not.”

Whatever the badger meant to imply, Peter didn't like it. “Well, it's not even close to my bedtime yet. Would you mind if I step on deck again, or would I fly away or vanish if I tried to?”

“You might get wet. We are passing a very thick curtain of…clouds, or fog of sorts, right now. I avoid getting wet when I am in the company of Sons of Adam. They dun' like the smell.”

“I see. Well, I am wet enough already, so it shouldn't make much of a difference,” said Lord Peter. “Are there any more badgers?”

“Badgers? No.”

“But someone must be on there?”

“Must, no. Is, yes. Probably all asleep by now.”

Lord Peter raised an eyebrow. “Certainly someone must steer the ship?”

“If you say so.” The badger took a moment think. Then he said: “I am sure you won't meet anyone, except maybe for the occasional drunk ferret.”

Peter stood up from the bed, determined to leave the cabin, if only to see what would happen when he stepped out into the open, but was quickly brought down by a sudden tremble. He was not at all sure whether it was the ship's shiver or his own.

“Ah, we passed the frontier,” said Fred. “I thought that would take at least another hour. Fine enuff, we can all go out now. It's dry.”

Peter got up again, slightly unsteady still, and looked at Bunter. “Bunter.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Will you come on deck with us?”

“If you would like me to do so, sir.”

“Well, do as you please.”

“I would rather stay here, sir.”

Fred was right, the deck was dry. In fact, it was too dry. The clouds that had obscured the sky all evening, like a mirror of Peter's deliberate mood, were gone, and the stars which took their place were all wrong. Peter said so, and earned a snort and a scowl from the badger.

“Naw,” he said, “who do you think you are to tell the stars they're all wrong?”

Peter had no response to this and instead stood watching. The stars seemed larger, nearer, all scattered about with no real—or, at least, no familiar—constellations to make out.

“Do you see that large star over there?”

“I do.”

“And the small one beside it?”

“The second star to the right, you mean? Yes I see it.”

“It's our guide.”

“I thought it was.”

There was not much excitement on deck. The stars made Peter uncomfortable, and it was cold, and lonely, so he decided to go to bed, far too early, and hopefully wake up in Piccadilly, far too late. Bunter was asleep when he came into the cabin, or, at the very least, appeared to be.

Peter noticed a neat, dark bedside table and opened the small drawer. It contained three books—a tiny Bible, a clothbound, hand-written something, and a brand-new looking volume named _The Little Whatsit_ , edited and published by Mr B. Tummeler Esquire. It reminded Peter of the task that lay ahead of him, and stirred his curiosity. He wanted to take it out, open it, read it—but something kept him from doing so, a sudden, painfully familiar feeling of paralysis. Instead, he laid down to sleep, not expecting to wake up in his bed any more. Not expecting anything in particular…expecting anything…

He was woken up by the sound of a shot, and knew he was not at home. But he also knew that he was not back. At least, he was not back where he might have thought to be, and he was a little proud for realising that immediately upon waking up.

But Peter was back. He was not aware of it, but he had just arrived in a place that he once knew, and would know again. Bunter was well aware of it, but refrained from saying so.

“Good morning, Bunter,” said Peter.

“Good morning, Wimsey,” said Bunter, who sat in a chair beside Fred's—empty—crib.

Peter blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Of course.”

“Good morning, Scowler Peter and Sergeant Bunter.”

Fred came into the cabin with a large picnic basket. “I thought you might want to have breakfast before we go ashore. I have blueberry muffins, a pie, leprechaun crackers, fresh blueberries, milk, hot tea, cold tea, rum, pistachios, sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, ginger ale, and buttered toast.”

Peter climbed back into his back and put the cover over his head. He breathed in, out. Repeated it twice. Put the cover down again. The breakfast lay assembled on a thick blanket on the cabin floor and Bunter sat beside Fred.

“Are you not hungry, Scowler Wimsey?”

“I don't know. Yes, I suppose I am. What are leprechaun crackers?”

“Oh. Perfectly normal crackers. No real leprechauns on 'em.”

“Who made all this?”

“My grandfather. He just sent it to us, ya know? He is a good writer and editor, but his true passion lies in the culinary field. He wrote a cookbook, and–”

“I am glad to hear that. You are very fond of your grandfather?”

“Oh, very fond. He is a great man—badger.”

Peter sat down to Bunter's other side, ignoring his valet's new inclination to take liberties, and took, noticing Fred's approving look, a blueberry muffin.

“So, could you tell me more about this murder of yours?”

“It's not _my_ murder,” said Fred.

“Of course not. But it's you who brought me here, even though I should be in Denver at noon.”

“Never mind about that.”

“Well, I do.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“If I might say so,” said Bunter, “you have already agreed not to…mind about that.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” said Peter sharply and took a sandwich. “What…what is this?”

“Um, mayonnaise, crunchy peanut butter, potato crisps, lettuce, sliced radishes and ketchup.”

“Ah.”

“My grandfather did not make _those_ ,” said Fred, defensively. But he added, with a tinge of pride in his voice, “They were made by a very good friend.”

Peter put the sandwich back and poured himself a cup of tea. “But this murder. Do you have any news about it? Maybe from your grandfather.”

“I haven't told grandpa about it. Not yet.”

“Well, who does know about it?”

“Oh, nobody in particular. Only the King, and Solomon Kaw, who is in charge of the Great Whatsit, ya know, and…and that Daughter'f Eve, who stumbled here a while ago. Harriet Vane.”

“I think, I'll have some rum,” said Lord Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still not quite sure as to where this is going, and surprised myself a bit, this time. I did not expect Harriet to show up (or, rather, be mentioned) so early, and I first thought it would be Peter who introduced her to the Archipelago. But this opens different possiblities, especially regarding Peter's own past – and his and Harriet's future.


	3. A New and Shiny Principle

Daylight finally woke Lord Peter. In the night, he could still tell himself that he was dreaming, imagining, and the safe, closed up space of the cabin held some of this reassurance well into the day. But the strong sunlight, the distinct smell of the sea, and the busy noise of the port forced him to accept that he was really and truly standing on the deck of a ship.

And what a ship it was! Ancient in its design, yet in a fabulous condition. Green, with roses and other creepers growing over it, and with a beautiful Dragon head. And now it wasn't empty: all sorts of critters were hurrying over the ship, stumbling against him, running between his feet. There were ferrets (sober, at least!) and weasels, rats and mice, goats, a few rabbits, even a bear.

And Lord Peter knew so little. It's quite understandable that he couldn't possibly have known that some of these animals were the inspiration for a book series that was not yet written, and which he would read one day to his own children, who were not yet born. He could not have known that the woman who, with his permission, chronicled some parts of his life was a friend of the man who was yet to write these tales. He must not even have known that Fred was much more than a little, furry guide and, so to speak, client of his, or that the ship he was standing on was far, far more than wood and flowers, far more than he could ever imagine to be standing on.

But he _should_ have known that the island in front of him was once as familiar as his own childhood home. That the port and the beaches, the numerous apple orchards and magnificent palace, were a thing of his past as real, and yet as distant, as the war. But Peter knew that he should have known, and that at least, thought Bunter, was something.

“I have a new principle,” said Fred as he led the two men ashore.

“Indeed?” asked Peter. “What sort of principle?”

“Well, a new one. Very shiny.”

“But what is the sense of it?”

“It brings you places,” said the small animal. “I know some people have principles merely to show them off, but I can't abide all that bragging. Not that I don't find it very pleasant, but I mostly want it to bring me where I want to get. Do ya follow me?”

“I will follow.”

Fred looked at him over his shoulder, scowling. “Good,” he said. “I like to hear that.” _And I like to see that_ , he thought as he saw Bunter mouthing the same words, with his eyes fixed on his lord.

The sun was shining brightly, and Peter knew it was close to noon without looking at his watch, but he didn't care any more. He fell down the rabbit hole, followed the second star to the right, and was now following a talking badger onto a strange island. He would be back in time, and if not, he would have a fine enough story to tell his mother.

“Welcome to Paralon,” said Fred as they stepped on solid ground. “The Glory of the Worlds, the Seat of the Silver Throne—my childhood home.”

The streets were filled with busy people of all kinds, human and animal, and altogether different. Most buildings appeared very old, vaguely medieval, but some were even older, and some fairly new. To Peter's surprise, only few horse-drawn carriages passed by them, instead he saw several devices that strongly resembled motor cars, although they sounded and smelt much different.

“ _The Benevolent Constancy_. My new principle. Very shiny, is it not?”

“Oh, very shiny indeed,” said Bunter. “And you drive it?”

“Cettenly, cettenly.”

“Well, she can certainly bring us some-place,” said Peter. “Excuse my asking, but how is it powered?”

“Oh—steam. Yes, steam. And something else, but I am not sure what it is, or how to explain it.”

_The Benevolent Constancy_ turned out to be equally swift and comfortable, and even Peter, who strongly disliked being chauffeured by someone else, especially a forest animal, was able to relax in its back seat and let his gaze wander about the beautiful, ancient city.

“Paralon is the principal island of the Archipelago of Dreams,” said Fred. “But you know this of course.”

“Actually, I didn't,” said Peter. He felt Bunter stiffen beside him. “But I am very grateful to you for telling me so. Would you mind telling us more about it?”

“Well,” began Fred, “what more could be said of it? The King is here, 'f course, and the Parliament, and the Great Whatsit, where I am taking you, and we have apple orchards. Many, many apple orchards. But there's also libraries here, smaller 'uns, I mean, and theatres, and museums, and all that sort of thing. But our economy is based in apples, really.”

“It's near harvest time, isn't it?”

“Oh, no, the trees are still in full bloom.”

Scowler Peter scowled, but said nothing. They drove in silence for a few moments, until Fred suddenly exclaimed, “There it is! The Great Whatsit.”

The Great Whatsit appeared to be carved into stone. It was large and it was strange, and Peter was not sure whether it truly appealed to him. It fascinated him nonetheless and he quickly jumped out of the principle. “So, the murder happened here?”

“Maybe,” said Fred. “I have told you that I don't know much about it.”

“But you do have a reason for bringing us here?”

“Of course, I do!”

The large, wooden door opened upon Fred's approach and let them in. It seemed a surprisingly inviting place, quite unlike its exterior suggested, well-lit and warm.

“And you say _this_ ,” said Peter as he surveyed the mostly eighteenth and nineteenth century bookcases and shelves, and other pieces of furniture, and the comparably modern looking books stacked up near them, “is the Library of Alexandria?”

“What's left of it. Saved, and transferred here. Well, not immediately, but it all ended up here in end. But the real ancient pieces are kept safe, in different rooms. Most of the books you can see here are reprints, some are restored originals, others are new additions to the lot of 'em. And then there's the Lost Books, of course.”

“How can they be here if they are lost?”

“Oh, not lost— _Lost_. They are not individual books that vanished for some reason, but Lost Books. Books written by authors after their death, books written by Archipelago peoples that never made it to the Summer Country, books that just appeared out of nowhere. Oh, and books that most Scowlers think have disappeared or were destroyed. Just like the books saved in Alexandria.”

“And how do you know that they are real? They could be very good forgeries, for all that I know.”

“I could be a very good forgery, for all that you know,” said Fred, causing Bunter to make a face that strongly resembled a restrained grin.

Peter accepted Fred's argument as well as Bunter's response to it. The Great Whatsit consisted of many rooms that opened into each other, all of them filled with books in a seemingly disordered fashion, with books stacked upon each other, beside shelves, on and below them, and all sorts of things among them, like bottles, and letters, and peculiar artefacts. There were half-filled tea cups and opened ink bottles scattered about, and all sorts of small animals scurried across the shelves—mice and hedgehogs, rats and tiny weasels. But most fascinating were the corvids. There were crows and magpies, and exceptionally large ravens. One of them appeared to expect them. An old-looking crow, with a cleric's vest and a pair of pince-nez on his shiny black beak. He sat on a large and untidy writing desk and greeted them with a wave of his left wing.

“Go-go-go-od evening, Sco-scowler Fred. I-i see, you ha-ave bro-ought friends.”

“Scowler Wimsey and Sergeant Bunter have agreed to help with the murder,” said Fred and turned towards the two men. “This is Solomon Kaw, who's in charge of the organisin'.”

“I hope we were not brought here to solve a murder of crows?” asked Peter when greetings were said and done.

“I un-understand this is a-a popular jo-joke among sco-scowlers from the Su-summer Country?”

Fred nodded.

“Ha-hah,” said the bird. “Very fu-funny. Well, as Fred has brought you to the Royal Library, I assume you are in need of a particular volume?”

“I should like to have a look at quite a few books in this place,” said Peter, “but we didn't come for reading. Or did we?” he asked Fred.

“We came for answers, and here is where most of them are,” said Fred placidly and turned to Solomon Kaw. “I am sure you can help us?”

“I wi-will try to-to.” The bird adjusted his glasses and shuffled a sheet of parchment towards Peter. “The-ese are my no-no-notes. And these, he-here,” he drew a sheet of paper near, “are Miss Vane's.”


	4. The Raven and Child

Harriet sat by the fireside, listening to a ghost story as told by a raven. His beak was dark as night and his eyes were conceiled by a pair of black glasses. Solomon Kaw was an exceptionally large bird—but this raven was something else entirely. The first time Harriet saw him, he appeared to her to be a large, black cloud, obscuring the full moon and leaving her alone in the dark. Then she heard a voice, clear and quietly precise. That was nearly three months ago—at least according to her count.

“How did you like this one, my child?” asked the raven. “Have you known it before?”

Harriet stretched her legs and moved her feet closer to the fire. “Very,” she said, “and no. Did you invent it?”

“A good friend of mine.”

“I see.” Harriet had grown fond of the bird, but she still felt a sort of reservedness towards him. It would have been difficult not to do.

“You are sad,” observed the raven.

“I may be.”

“But why?”

Harriet considered this. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “because I don't have a proper reason to.”

The bird did not question her further. He knew what she meant.

They sat in silence for a while, quietly savouring the warmth and comfort of their little study. It was a very brown one, honey and amber, wool and wood, and it was filled with books Harriet had not dared to dream existed. She had spent several days doing nothing but reading—not complete books, but bits of every one she could find, and which she dared to touch lest they not fall to dust in her hands. Then, she started to study a few particular ones with more specific interest. And then, she lost her way…but that didn't matter. She had nothing to do in particular, no assigned occupation, could roam freely and do as she liked. That is, until the murder happened.

At least, she thought, nobody had accused her. Nor had she discovered the body.

That was something, at least. But she felt no better for it. Murder followed her—as far as into Wonderland.

In the next room, though neither of them knew it, sat Lord Peter Wimsey. He read, and he waited. He read Harriet's notes, and Solomon Kaw's, and Harriet's again. He skimmed through books he rarely dreamed existed, and then, like Harriet, lost his way. He returned to the crow's notes, and then…to Harriet's again.

Peter liked to look at her notes. But he made no head or tail of them. Strange names were mentioned, unfamiliar abbreviations were ended with sharp, unaccommodating periods. But they were Harriet's, and so he made the effort of liking them.

And through liking them, he began to understand.

The badger's inexorable babbling was a spring of names and terms, which Peter had memorised. Grudgingly then, grateful now. Did he know? Peter wondered. The small animal was, he thought, peculiarly shrewd. Some names and phrases were literary, and Peter suspected that a few of them were actually to be taken literally. And then, some things came to him intuitively…no, not quite—more like a different memory, a knowledge he did not know he had until mentioned to him, or a déjà vu.

Two things seemed particularly significant to Peter, though he would not have been able to say why. One was the mention—twice underlined!—of small, round sunglasses. The other was a name: Weston.

There was also a quote by John Dee: “Who does not understand should either learn, or be silent.”

Peter shivered involuntarily and put Harriet's notes away. He would not have expected the notes of a crow named Solomon Kaw to be clearer and plainer than Harriet Vane's, but he was glad they were. He usually preferred the whimsical aspects of his investigations, but for today, his whimsy had taken him too far away. He wanted facts, and facts he finally got.

The murder had occurred about a month ago. The body was found by the Daughter of Eve, who had come from the Summer Country seven weeks earlier, and who had told the local police that her name was Harriet Deborah Vane. Scowler Vane had been educated in Oxford and was therefore not a suspect. Scowler Vane was a writer of mystery novels and volunteered to help with the case.

Scowler Vane had found the body in a flat she had rented for herself. The house in which this flat was belonged to a cardboard man named Thistledew. Thistledew had been on Galma at the estimated time of the murder; Scowler Vane had contacted him via swallow. He was therefore not a suspect, although the police had informed him (via trump card) that they would interview him upon his return. Solomon Kaw knew not whether Thistledew was the cardboard man's first, last, or only name.

The body had been examined by a young doctor, who was described as a Son of Adam, and whose name Solomon Kaw did not know.

The body belonged to what appeared to be a young or middle aged Son of Adam, of unknown identity or origin. The police suspected that he might have come from the Summer Country. Solomon Kaw thought this to be mere speculation.

The body was dressed in a simple black suit, with a dark grey tie, and new-looking shoes. His eyes were closed.

He had been stabbed with a platinum knife.

Peter put the notes away again and considered what he had read. There was a police on Paralon, and he suspected that it consisted at least partly of badgers. The cardboard landlord appeared to be uninteresting, except for the fact that he was a cardboard man.

The doctor was a different thing. Peter wondered what a doctor would be like in this place, even, or especially, a human one, and he was bothered by his lack of name.

“Bunter,” he said, “ask Solomon Kaw…or Fred to call the police. I would like to talk to them.”

Bunter considered telling his lordship that Solomon Kaw and Fred were only a few rooms away and he could very well tell them himself, they were in the Archipelago after all. Then he decided against it and said “Yes, my lord,” and went away. It was not Peter's fault that he could remember so little, and disturbing him would be of no help.

Peter leant back in his chair and gazed out of the small, curved window. He could see a dark sky, for it was night once again, and he could see stars, and things he thought were stars. Things that watched over him. Oh, he remembered so little.

Harriet's chair was much too large for her, and she slept in it curled up as a ball. The raven sat on the backrest. It was impossible to tell whether he watched her, but his right wing shielded her face from the lamplight. He could not turn it off, but he knew she needed sleep.


	5. Wings of the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, after a longer pause. Not much happening. Only breakfast.

Peter woke up before dawn and instinctively rubbed his eyes, almost crashing his monocle. He had fallen asleep on his writing desk. Not his desk, he realised. It was part of the Great Whatsit, and probably belonged to the King. Fred had told him earlier that the King's name was Artus.

“So it has happened?” Peter had asked. “He has returned?”

“Not he,” explained the badger. “Just a descendant, ya know? They used t' call him Bug.”

“Of course. _Bug_. I should have known that.”

Now, it didn't really matter whose desk it was, as there was nothing on it. All the books and papers had been taken away, probably the little librarians' work. And Peter was hungry, awfully hungry. But he didn't know where to find any food, and he wouldn't have liked to ask Fred. Not that Mr Tummeler's food wasn't good—it was, in fact, excellent—but he expected to stay in this place for several days, maybe more, and he didn't want to rely for his meals on a small forest animal.

The Great Whatsit was a surprisingly clear building. For some reason, Peter had expected to get lost in it, but he quickly found the room he had first entered yesterday, and there he saw Solomon Kaw. The crow was busy, but amiable, and told Peter where to find the kitchen.

Bunter was in the kitchen, and he spoke to a girl with copper hair and skin of bronze. She looked no older than fourteen, and there was a depth in her eyes that could only be seen in the eyes of the very old, and the very young. It took her while to notice him, as she was dreamily cutting up a cucumber, but she smiled at him as she looked up.

“You are Scowler Wimsey.”

“Well, yes. I am.”

“One of my uncles calls you Lord Peter.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

“So I wanted to do the same. But Sergeant Bunter said I should better call you Scowler Wimsey.”

“Did he?” asked the scowler-lord, with a sideways glance at his valet.

Bunter sat on the kitchen counter, munching on a sandwich that, judging from the noise he made, most definitely contain potato crisps. It was a marvellous sight, and sound, and immediately disarmed Lord Peter.

“Morning, Wimsey.”

“That's right,” said the girl. “It's morning. And _you_ have a monocle.”

“Yes…indeed. And who are you?” asked the monocled man.

“A conundrum, or an enigma. She forget which,” answered Bunter in her place, but the girl ignored him.

“My name is Rose Dyson. I used to live in Oxford, with my uncle.”

“The one who calls me Lord Peter?”

“No, not that one. I have many uncles.”

“How good for you!”

“Oh, yes, it is. Uncles are a very pleasant thing to have. Would you like to be my uncle?”

“Excuse me?”

“Bunter said you'd love to! Do you want a sandwich?”

“With crisps?”

“Not…if you don't like crisps,” she said, but her face betrayed her hurt feelings, and Peter accepted a very crunchy sandwich instead.

He sat down on an old, comfortable chair. Much more comfortable than the one he had fallen asleep on. The kitchen was very modest and cosy. It was, in a way, disappointing to find that, of all rooms in the resurrected Library of Alexandria, the kitchen was the most pleasant to be in.

He had, of course, no idea of all the rare and ancient books (some of them cookbooks, of course) stored in the cupboards, nor of the identity of the girl in front of him. All he knew was that the kitchen was delightfully, yet underwhelmingly common, and the sandwich astonishingly good.

“Would you also like a waffle?” the girl asked, almost pleadingly. “With blueberries?”

“Very much, thank you,” said Peter. “But how should I be your uncle? I am quite sure, we are not related, and I suppose it's too late for me to become your godfather.”

“I don't understand,” said the girl as she scooped whipped cream on his plate. “I have a plentiful of relatives, and I have both God and Father. I merely asked if you would like to be my _uncle_.”

“Well, in that case,” said Peter, as he received his waffle and blueberries and thick whipped cream, “I'd _love to_.”

The girl beamed, and there was a hint of a smirk on Bunter's face.

“Tea?” asked the girl. Tea, of course. It wasn't proper tea, found Peter, but a sweet, hot beverage from a strange-looking can, that smelled and tasted like boiled fruit candy, and to which the girl added another load of whipped cream before he could intervene.

There were cranes outside. They made no noise, so Peter only noticed them as they flew past the window, large and beautiful, chased by sunlight.

The girl smiled mildly, and Bunter looked up from his cup of tea for a second, but Peter's eyes were fixed on the morning sky. The magnificent scene was soon over, and as it got lighter even the last of those strange stars seemed to vanish, but Peter sat still, staring out of the window, into himself, an uncertain nothingness. For a moment, he knew, but then he remembered his waffles and noticed the cream melting away, and his tea getting cold. He was hungry, and thirsty, and he decided to enjoy his breakfast.

A dark feather touched Harriet's cheek, but she took some time to wake up. Her back ached, and her neck felt stiff, from sleeping all curled up in that old chair—large it was, but not a _bed_. She longed for breakfast, but decided not to have any. Sometimes the mice brought her some simple things to eat (cookies, queen cakes, outrageous sandwiches) and sometimes she pulled herself together and went to the kitchen to get herself some fruit or bread, or a cup of tea. But today she didn't feel like meeting anyone, and no mice seemed to have the time to help her out. She had felt like that before, two or three times in the Archipelago, and for all that she knew, it was not a good sign. And her raven was nowhere to be seen.


	6. The Other Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter in quite a while. And boy, did it surprise me!

It wasn't before noon that Peter and Harriet met.

Fred and his father (“M'name's Charles Montgolfier Hargreaves-Heald, but ya can call me Uncas!”) had invited them both to have luncheon with them in a small restaurant ran by a family of dormice.

“And this is Scowler Vane,” said Uncas. “She's the Daughter'f Eve we've told'ya'bout. Scowler Vane, 'tis Lord-Scowler Wimsey.”

“I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord-Scowler,” said Miss Vane, with a twinkle in her voice, rather than her eyes, and ordered sliced plums fried in ground hazelnuts. She had obviously eaten there before, and Peter, unsure what to order from a rodent kitchen and unconditionally trusting Harriet's judgement, had the same. In fact, once the badgers picked a savoury earthworm pie from the menu, he was all the more glad to have an easily identifiable dish. It would have been of no use to choose a drink, as the waitress (a young chipmunk) brought them all an unasked for glass of milk topped with whipped cream, blueberries and caramel.

“So, Miss Vane. It was you who's found the body?”

“Isn't it great?” asked Uncas before Harriet could answer. “To have a Scowlermaiden from Oxford, here on Paralon, and she finds a body?” His eyes beamed with delight. “I'm sure nobody'd've found it, an' it would have withered and eaten by worms an...”

“Stop it, Pa, you're ruining ma pie!”

“Yes, how fortunate” said Harriet, a restrained laugh in her voice, while the badgers argued in low voices about their pies.

Peter chuckled and wiped some of the whipped cream of his chin, his attempt at drinking his milkummybob being foiled by the word “Scowlermaiden”.

“And you have a suspect?”

“Not really—what do you mean?”

Peter wasn't sure. “I'm not sure.”

“You're not?”

“No. I mean...what about that man, Weston.” Then he paused. “Is Weston a man?”

“Yes, but...” Harriet nodded at the badgers, who had paused their discussion and eating of pie to stare at him indignantly. “...we don't mention him.”

“It's awright,” said Uncas, still rather disgruntled. “It's not _your_ fault.”

“You couldn't know it,” said Fred, “that's all.”

“I think we should just enjoy our lunch and talk the murder later,” suggested Harriet, and the rest of them agreed. It was, in fact, a very pleasant lunch. All of the food Peter has had so far in the Archipelago was exceptionally and delightfully good, and he vaguely wondered if it had the same effect as fairy food. He then dismissed the idea—it felt different, although he couldn't think how he should know.

Once they had finished their pie, the badgers fell fast asleep in their chairs, so Harriet and Peter decided to stay for some time, ordered tea ( _actual_ tea) and talked quietly to each other. Harriet, it turned out, had not known that Peter was in the Archipelago.

“But, to be quite honest with you—I'm not surprised. I think I somehow expected you to come here. It suits you.”

“Suits me? A place like this?”

“It _does_ suit you better than me. Most of the animals here have a predilection for the nobility, some are rather radical monarchists. And all of them, the badgers in particular, consider Oxford to be the source of all virtue. And they appear to hero-worship the writer Charles Williams.”

“Of _War in Heaven_ fame? Good grief, I don't think I could make such a place up.”

“You think you imagined it all?” said Harriet. “Then how did you put me in this place?”

Peter smiled sadly. “You're appearance made it seem all the more like a fantasy. But if it wasn't me—how did you get here?”

“Fell down the rabbit hole.”

“No, really...”

“The badger hole? I really don't know. I got into my car, drove through some heavy mist, and then I was here. And you?”

“I would always follow you. This time, on a ship. Quite intentionally.”

“You can get here on a ship?”

“Apparently. _Sometimes_.”

Harriet was quiet for a moment. “You know, Peter,” she said in a very low voice, “it wasn't me.”

“Not you?”

“I haven't found the body.”

They spent the rest of the day in the library—the Public Library of Paralon. Ordinary as it was to the citizens of Paralon, it fascinated Peter almost as much as the Great Whatsit. The books in the Public Library were (by their standards, at least) not ancient or rare, but most of them were written and published in the Archipelago. There were romance novels written by shoebills, the autobiography of a clockwork man, several cookbooks dedicated to the preparation of blueberries, a field guide co-written by a squirrel and a living tree, and an anthology of ghost stories edited by a descendant of a Knight of the Round Table. All of them stacked up neatly in mundane, wooden shelves, and sorted according to the _Duodecimal_ Classification.

“Here's recent history,” said Harriet. “Mostly of the Archipelago, of course.”

“They have an interesting concept of recent history,” said Peter, letting his fingers slide over a few medieval manuscripts, a few detective novels of uncannily familiar title, a children's book about a little man living in a hole that was supposed to be published in the Summer Country in 1937, and a book of pirate maps from the 18th century.

“They have an interesting concept of almost everything.” Harriet took a nondescript looking, black paperback from one of the upper shelves. It didn't have a title, nor a proper title page or index. It just began on the first page, in neat, small print. Harriet found the page she was looking for in less than thirty seconds and held the book open for Peter to look at page number 240. It began: _haven't found any useful information regarding [redacted] except for Mr Durrant's most recent discoveries._

_E. R. Weston, b. 1896 AD in the Summer Country—_ The rest of the page was blacked-out and the next was a list of rare minerals.

“And you think this Weston chap has anything to do with it?” said Peter, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it seems to be just the sort of thing he'd do.”

“You mean—murder?”

“Not necessarily, just any sort of involvement,” said Harriet. Then, after a pause, she added: “But murder, too. Yes.”

Peter scowled at her and then looked back at page number 240.

“But how could you know?”

“Because—well, because I _know_ _him_.”


End file.
